Livia lone, p.1
Livia Lone, page 1
PRAISE FOR BARRY EISLER
“Eisler combines the insouciance of Ian Fleming, the realistic detail of Tom Clancy, the ennui of Graham Greene, and the prose power of John le Carré.”
—News-Press
“Furious and creative . . . Rain’s combination of quirks and proficiency is the stuff great characters are made of.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“No one is writing a better thriller series today than Barry Eisler. He has quickly jumped into my top ten best American mystery/thriller writers, along with Michael Connelly, Lee Child, Walter Mosley, and Harlan Coben . . . Rating: A.”
—Deadly Pleasures
“Written with a delightfully soft touch and a powerful blend of excitement, exotica, and what (ever since John le Carré) readers have known to call tradecraft.”
—The Economist
“Barry Eisler serves up steamy foreign locales, stunning action, and enough high-tech weaponry to make for an A-plus read.”
—New York Daily News
ALSO BY BARRY EISLER
A Clean Kill in Tokyo (previously published as Rain Fall)
A Lonely Resurrection (previously published as Hard Rain)
Winner Take All (previously published as Rain Storm)
Redemption Games (previously published as Killing Rain)
Extremis (previously published as The Last Assassin)
The Killer Ascendant (previously published as Requiem for an Assassin)
Fault Line
Inside Out
The Detachment
Graveyard of Memories
The God’s Eye View
SHORT WORKS
“The Lost Coast”
“Paris Is a Bitch”
“The Khmer Kill”
“London Twist”
ESSAYS
“The Ass Is a Poor Receptacle for the Head: Why Democrats Suck at Communication,
and How They Could Improve”
“Be the Monkey: A Conversation about the New World of Publishing” (with J. A. Konrath)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 by Barry Eisler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503939660 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1503939669 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781503939653 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1503939650 (paperback)
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
First edition
For the sheepdogs
CONTENTS
1—NOW
2—NOW
3—THEN
4—THEN
5—NOW
6—THEN
7—NOW
8—THEN
9—THEN
10—NOW
11—THEN
12—THEN
13—NOW
14—THEN
15—NOW
16—THEN
17—NOW
18—THEN
19—THEN
20—THEN
21—THEN
22—THEN
23—NOW
24—THEN
25—THEN
26—THEN
27—THEN
28—THEN
29—NOW
30—THEN
31—THEN
32—THEN
33—THEN
34—NOW
35—THEN
36—THEN
37—THEN
38—THEN
39—THEN
40—THEN
41—THEN
42—THEN
43—THEN
44—NOW
45—THEN
46—THEN
47—THEN
48—THEN
49—THEN
50—THEN
51—NOW
52—NOW
53—NOW
54—NOW
55—NOW
56—NOW
57—NOW
58—NOW
59—NOW
60—NOW
61—NOW
62—NOW
63—NOW
64—NOW
65—NOW
66—NOW
NOTES
SOURCES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1—NOW
Billy Barnett dug the Asian chick sitting next to him. She was slim and petite, but with a nice little rack shown off by a form-fitting, long-sleeve yoga shirt. He’d asked if she was coming from a late workout when he’d first sidled up next to her at the bar at Ray’s, dipping his head close so she could hear him over the music from the jukebox, and she’d told him yeah, a workout that had earned her a drink, and he’d laughed and asked if he could buy her one, and she’d said sure, a white wine wouldn’t be so bad. He’d been surprised by that—her hair was dyed peroxide blonde and she was wearing a lot of purple eye shadow behind a pair of oversized, horn-rimmed eyeglasses, and a chick with a look that wild would ordinarily be the type for tequila shots, say, or maybe a vodka martini with a twist if she was trying to play it more upscale. But hey, whatever.
So he’d asked her name, which turned out to be Sue, as though that mattered, and he’d ordered her the wine she wanted, with a Bulleit back for himself, and they’d bullshitted about how she’d just moved to Marysville because her ex-husband was here and they had joint custody of their kid, and now she had to get a job and deal with interviews and how was she going to find anything half as good as what she’d left in LA, personal assistant to some movie producer Billy had never heard of. But fuck, he didn’t care about her story. What mattered was that she’d come to Ray’s all made up even after a workout, street clothes still in a big backpack so she could show off that sweet body in her yoga outfit, and wearing flip-flops like she couldn’t wait to get barefoot and jump straight into the sack. All meaning she was looking for a little action, right? Practically begging for it.
Ray’s closed at two—less than an hour away. Billy knew he shouldn’t think about that, shouldn’t imagine it. He was in Ray’s four, maybe five nights a week, his neighborhood place since being released from the Monroe Twin Rivers Unit the previous month. Hell, Ray, who was tending bar tonight and was himself an ex-con, knew Billy, even called him by his nickname, Barn. If this Asian chick kicked up a fuss, Ray’s would be the first place the cops would come looking. And they’d finger Billy just from the description: Big, solid-looking guy; long, dark hair; accent straight out of Beaumont; spends his time at Ray’s? Gotta be my man Barn. Let’s pick him up, bring him in for questioning. Send his ass back to Monroe and we never should have let him go in the first place.
But shit, the bourbon was giving everything that vibe, that great, invulnerable up feeling like he could do anything he wanted, take anything he wanted, get away with anything he wanted. He lifted his glass and drained it, closing his eyes for a moment to savor the sweet smell in his sinuses, the sting in his throat, the mushrooming impact inside his head, and he heard the crack of balls on the pool table, and felt the steady stomping beat of Bruce Springsteen’s “Spirit in the Night,” and he opened his eyes and looked at the Asian chick, and she was smiling at him, and he wanted to, he so fucking wanted to.
And besides, Asian chicks put up with a lot of shit, didn’t they, rather than have to deal with public humiliation? It was why there were so many molesters on Japanese trains, it was too crowded for the girls to move away and they’d silently endure almost anything rather than draw attention to themselves. That’s what he’d heard, anyway, he’d never been to Asia but he’d always wanted to go.
Well, maybe you can take a little trip there tonight.
And even if she did go to the cops, there were a half dozen people in here, including Ray himself, who would attest that she’d shown up in that tight yoga outfit and the garish makeup, and eased out of her sweatshirt like a striptease, and flirted with Billy for hours, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm, letting him buy her drinks. How would she explain all that?
Of course, the real problem was more Hammerhead than the law. Not that the guys had any moral qualms about some slut getting what was coming to her, but a member drawing heat due to repeated sexual assault charges wasn’t particularly good for business, and Billy was already semi in the shit for just that reason. His orders were to keep a low profile following his release—stay clear of the gang, stay out of trouble, head back to Seattle when the weekly meetings with the state-appointed therapist were done and he was no longer being watched so closely.
But shit, the way he liked to play it, who would ever even know? He almost never needed to threaten, and only twice had he had to resort to the hunting knife he kept in a leather sheath attached to his belt. No, he knew how to do it right. Get the chick alone, start to get rough with her, and then, when she tried to stop him, accuse her of leading him on. His size and sudden anger always scared them, threw them off balance, chilled them right out. Yeah, this hot little Asian chick would give it up. Even persuade herself it was her decision, or at least her fa ult. And she’d know no one would believe her if she tried to claim otherwise.
He gestured to her nearly empty glass. “Like another?”
She shook her head. “Three’s my limit. Especially after a workout.” She smiled shyly, as though confessing something shameful. “I’m such a lightweight. I think I’ve already had too much. But you go ahead, if you want.”
He did want. He did indeed.
He nodded to Ray, then pointed at his empty glass. Ray picked up the Bulleit bottle and strolled over. “You guys good?” he said as he refilled the glass to three fingers. One of the benefits of being a regular—Ray didn’t stint on the refills.
“No more for me,” the Asian chick said.
Ray nodded. “Last call in fifteen. Just so you know.”
Billy watched Ray stroll away, then raised his glass to the Asian chick and said, “Here’s to life’s little pleasures.” He tossed the whole thing back, tilting his chin up to ease the whiskey’s passage. He set the glass back on the bar and closed his eyes, just savoring the moment. Damn, he loved good bourbon. One of the things he’d missed in the joint. One of many.
When he opened his eyes, the Asian chick stretched her arms back, and oh, man, that little rack wasn’t so little after all, was it? “Well,” she said, reaching down to the foot of the barstool and retrieving her backpack, “I should get going—that interview in the morning.”
Billy looked her up and down, not caring what she made of it. Damn, she really was a hot little slut. It wasn’t just the bourbon. He’d wanted her the moment he’d caught her eye as she walked in. And she was drunk now, and they were going to walk out together, and if she was carrying a backpack, especially a big one like that, it probably meant she’d arrived on foot—otherwise, she would have left her gear in the car. It was all working out so perfectly, it was almost too good to be true.
“Yeah, getting late for me, too.” He stood and dropped a couple of twenties on the bar, then slipped her sweatshirt off the back of her barstool. “Here, let me get that for you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No problem,” he said with a smile. “No problem at all.”
Billy led the way, holding the door for her, letting his gaze slide down past the backpack she had slung over a shoulder, admiring her ass as she squeezed by. He waved a goodnight to Ray, who nodded in return, his face impassive, probably knowing what Billy was up to, but also knowing it was none of his business.
A moment later, they were out on the sidewalk, the door swinging shut behind them with a slowly dying squeak, the music from the jukebox suddenly muted. The warmth of the spring evening had died away, and the late-night air was cool and slightly moist. A half moon hung low in the sky, its edges softened by mist. On one side of the bar was a pawnshop, its interior dark behind barred windows. Opposite, what was once a parking lot, now fenced off and colonized by weeds. Other than the sound of distant eighteen-wheelers on the interstate and a few crickets, the area was silent. Billy nodded, liking the whole lonely vibe, just the two of them at last.
“Where are you parked?” he asked.
The Asian chick glanced at her sweatshirt, as though she wanted it back but was afraid to ask. Billy liked that.
“I’m not. I walked from my workout.”
Just like he’d thought. Perfect.
“You’re walking home, then?”
“That’s the plan, but—”
“I’ll walk you. Neighborhood’s not safe this time of night.”
“Look, you really don’t have to—”
“Hey, I insist,” he said, some edge in his tone, letting her know he’d be insulted if she refused his offer. “You just point the way.”
The Asian chick hesitated for a moment, clearly unsure of how to handle this. “It’s just a dump on the other side of the park. I’ve barely moved in, the place is a mess . . .”
“Well, hell,” Billy said with a good-natured laugh he knew would put her at ease. “I wasn’t expecting you to invite me in. I’ll just see you to the door and say goodnight.”
Nothing to argue with in any of that, was there? And sure enough, after a moment, the Asian chick nodded and said, “All right, then. Thank you. The park is going to be kind of dark at this hour.”
Yes, it is, pretty little thing. Yes, it is.
They headed down the sidewalk, passing not a soul, just closed storefronts and empty lots. The Asian chick was asking him questions, making small talk out of skittishness. Billy responded, but automatically, barely even hearing his own words, the bourbon buzzing in his brain. All he could think about was how dark the park would be. How deserted.
And then there it was, just ahead, so still, so perfect. There was a sudden hush as they crossed inside; even the crunch of their footfalls on pavement vanished, replaced by the soft, stealthy squish of grass. There were no lights anywhere, just weak moonlight and shadows under the trees. The Asian chick wasn’t talking anymore. Billy watched her out of the corner of his eye. A warm hit of adrenaline snaked out through his torso at the realization of where they were, how helpless she was now, how he could do anything he wanted.
“It’s getting chilly,” the Asian chick said, maybe just to hear the sound of her own voice.
They were almost halfway across. Dead center. Even the interstate trucks were barely audible now. There was a small copse of trees ahead. That would be the place. Billy could feel himself stiffening at the thought.
“Oh, I don’t know. Feels all right to me.”
“I guess you’re warmer-blooded than I am. Could I have my sweatshirt now?”
“Sure you can. No problem.” But he kept walking. The trees were just thirty feet away now.
“My sweatshirt,” the Asian chick said. “I’m cold.”
Billy didn’t answer. Twenty feet to the trees now. Ten.
“Hey,” the Asian chick said. “Did you hear me?”
He stopped and turned to her. Nothing but shadows here, and the trees would soak up sound. If she made any.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “Lost in thought.”
She stopped and looked at him. “I said I’m cold.”
God, she looked so fucking tasty in the faint light. So vulnerable. His heart was thudding hard. He could feel it in his chest, his throat.
He took a step toward her. “Well, shit, honey, I can take care of that. Warm you right up.”
She flinched and shook her head. “What? No. I just want my sweatshirt.”
“Sure, we’ll spread it out right here on the grass. It’ll be fine.”
He tossed the sweatshirt on the ground next to her. He was going to follow her down when she knelt to retrieve it, but she didn’t. She just stood there, looking at him. Well, that was all right. Lot of ways to skin a cat.
“Come on, now,” he said, moving closer to her. “I’ll make you feel good. You’ll see.”
She stepped back. “Look,” she said, with a little quaver. “I just want to go home. Okay?”
God, he liked the fear in her voice. Loved it.
“I told you I’d get you home, didn’t I? You doubting me now?”
“What? No. I just—”
“Don’t you give me a hard time. I was nice to you tonight. Bought you all those drinks, didn’t I?”
“Yes, it was nice of you, but—”
“Then don’t you think you should be nice back?”
“That’s not the point. I mean, it’s just, I don’t want—”
He stepped in suddenly and seized her by the shoulders. He squeezed hard, letting her feel how strong he was, how in control. How much damage he could do if she gave him a reason.
“Stop,” he said, giving her a single brisk shake. “Just stop now. Stop your talking and listen to me.”
He could feel the tension in her body. The growing panic. Fuck, he was so hard.
“I’ve been nice to you,” he said, keeping his grip tight. “All night. And all I want is for you to be nice back now. Are you telling me you won’t? Is that it?”
“Come on, stop,” she said, her voice high now, like a child’s. “You’re hurting me. Stop.”
It was such a turn-on, the way she was talking. He relaxed his grip and eased the backpack off her shoulder, letting it drop to the ground. It was heavier than he’d expected. Must have had some weights inside, something like that.
He caressed her neck for a moment, then let his hands drift to her elbows, his thumbs brushing the edges of her breasts along the way. He squeezed her arms to her sides and brought her closer. “Come on now. Just a kiss. Is that so much to ask, after I’ve been so nice to you?”
